


Perennial

by Hope



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidfic, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-20
Updated: 2006-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-01 23:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a sister. Circa 1987.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perennial

**Author's Note:**

> Spawned by some throwaway lines in the first of 'Three times the Winchesters grew older'.
> 
> This has been remixed in the spn_remix challenge: http://spnremixfics.livejournal.com/19340.html

*

"Are we going to the beach?"

With the windows down the scent of the ocean infuses the air in the car, salt water and even the faint rot of low tide fresher than the funk of bile. Sammy hangs his arms out the window, edge of the door hooking him up at the armpit.

"Not today, kiddo."

"Why not?"

John glances in the rearview again. Dean's not looking at anything, face ashen and eyes unfocused, leaning against the seat back limply. "Because your brother's sick."

"Why?"

John hesitates. "Because."

"Because why?"

"Sammy." He makes it a tone of mild warning, and Sammy remains largely unfazed, though he gets the point, changes his line of questioning.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see." John slows, ducks his head a little to peer at the street sign up ahead before signaling, turning as carefully as he can. Dean lolls a little, otherwise not responding to the change in movement, and John breathes a sigh of relief.

"Are we going to the beach?"

"_No._ And inside the car, please."

Sam finally sits back, one hand still gripping the edge of the door. He stares out the open window, heels thumping against the edge of the seat. The salty ocean smell changes into the fumy scent of eucalypt; the twisted trees bordering the road more thickly as the asphalt runs out, turns into hard-worn dirt.

There's a soft groan from the back seat, coinciding with the rougher change of texture under the car's wheels.

Sammy twists around again, kneeling to face the back seat. "Dean? Are you gonna puke again?" Dean doesn't answer. "Dean?"

"You okay back there, dude?" John asks, glancing into the rear view again. Dean looks much the same, only mouth closed, now. John's stomach twists a little in sympathy of Dean's expression of exhausted misery. He almost misses the hand-painted sign, catches a glimpse of it as they drive straight on past, and he brakes gently, reverses back to get a closer look at it.

This is the place, alright.

"Dean?"

"Sammy," John says. "Sit down. Leave your brother be. We're almost there."

The road he turns onto is narrower, a little rougher, so he takes it slower.

"Where?"

"Here." The road unkinks and they come in sight of a huge, rambling house; rough-hewn wooden walls and broad, low porch. Abruptly, John's stomach twists again, though not with sympathetic nausea, this time. He stops the car, but leaves the engine running, just sits in silence. The car rumbles low and reassuring, and John stares at the house.

"Daddy?" Sammy says, waits a beat. "Daddy?"

"Dad." Dean's voice is weak, hoarse, but the need in it still audible. John turns around to look and Dean's wavering again, lips pressed tight.

John twists off the ignition, shoves the door open and gets Dean's open quickly enough that Dean just tips over and retches onto the ground. John rubs between Dean's shoulders futilely, unable to maneuver their positions to effectively support any more than Dean's forehead as Dean spits stringy, clear bile into the dirt. Eventually the muscles ease their tension slightly under John's hand.

"Okay?"

Dean nods wordlessly, still gasping, swallowing convulsively, and John helps him sit up. "Sammy," John says, pulling the slightly stained blanket he'd lifted from the last motel up and around Dean's shoulders again. "You wanna give me a hand, here?"

Sammy doesn't bother with opening his own door, just slides across the bench seat to tumble out of John's still-open one.

"Get the keys, kiddo," John says. "And come out here; shut the door after you."

Sammy does as he's told, standing by patiently while John wraps Dean more tightly in the blanket, hefts him into his arms. Dean's practically boneless and without protest throughout, still shaking weakly, eyes squeezed shut. John frowns. Sammy slams the back door of the car, and the three of them start across the lawn toward the house.

The grass is deep, reaching up to Sammy's knees, dotted liberally with wild daisies. There're no other cars in front of the house, though there are a couple of out-dated bicycles leaning against the balustrade.

Sammy's silent as they reach the porch, step onto the decking. John balances Dean's weight, light as it is, and frees a hand to knock. Sammy clutches fingers into the shirttails at John’s hip. There's the sound of someone padding across floorboards on the other side of the door, and then it swings open with a soft chiming sound.

The man who opened the door blinks when he sees them, and he and John size each other up before either have spoken a word. John feels his hackles rise immediately but grits his teeth, grip tightening on Dean.

"Can I help you?" the man asks, slow, hazy drawl to go with his long hair, tattered tee-shirt.

"I'm looking for Jude," John says shortly.

The man frowns a little. "No Jude here."

The tension winding in John's gut bottoms out, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. "Are you sure?"

The man looks affronted. "Yes, I'm sure, I _live_ here. No Jude." He pauses for a moment, glances over John's shoulder toward the car, and frowns. "There's a June, though… Though I really fucking doubt you're looking for _her_."

Sammy's edged closer, pressing himself up against the back of John's leg, and Dean's shaking has eased in John's arms, his face tipped to press into John's shirt. John wants to pull the blanket up, wants the man to stop looking at Dean, to just… _Jesus._ "Well could you--"

"Look, buddy," the man says. "There is no 'Jude' here, so why don't you just take your gas guzzler there and go off and ask at the next trailer park, huh?"

"Mason?" There's a woman's voice from further back in the house, and then she appears, stepping into sight. Her hair's longer than he remembers it, lighter; webbed faintly with strands of gray. There're lines grooved into the skin around her mouth and temples. "What's going--" She stops, eyes widening. "_Johnny?_"

John smiles crookedly, something loosening and twisting oddly in his chest at the same time. "Hey," he says. "Jude."

The man -- Mason -- looks exceedingly pissed, but leans to the side against the doorframe to allow the woman to step forward. She grips the edge of the door, looks John up and down. "Holy shit," she says. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

John swallows. "No where else to go," he says.

She smirks. "Guess you still got a way with words," she says.

"Could say the same for you."

"Who the hell is that?" She nods her head toward Dean.

"This is my… Dean. My boy."

"Holy shit," she says again. "You got a kid? I mean… _You?_"

"Yeah. Two of 'em."

She notices Sammy, then, bends over to peer at him, bracing her hands on her knees. Sammy presses closer against John, pulling the edge of the shirt over his face.

"Holy shit," she laughs again.

"Jude," John says. "I need… Dean's sick. And I got no where else to go."

"Sure," she says without hesitation, stepping aside and into Mason, pushing him out of the way. "And it's not Jude anymore, by the way. Hasn't been for years. It's June."

"June?" John keeps it a tone of mild incredulity, and Jude glances at him over her shoulder as she leads them into the house.

"As in Juniper."

The hall opens out into a huge sunroom, about the breadth of the entire house, John reckons. A couple of fans spin lazily on the ceiling, floor scattered with warm-colored rugs and cushions, squat tables. Crystals and chimes spin and tinkle softly in the open windows. Jude leads them toward a low couch, seat of it bed-deep, and John sits, laying Dean down on his back. Dean immediately curls up, tipping onto his side. Sammy clambers up, still silent, clinging to John's back.

"What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know, he's just been… Throwing up for a couple of days. Feverish. Can't get him to… hold down _anything_, let alone water."

"You never thought of taking him to the doctor?" Jude raises an eyebrow.

John dips his head, smoothes Dean's hair back from his hot forehead. "I would if I could," he says. "But…" he gives a brief, humorless laugh. "Jesus, Jude. Why the hell would I be here if I _could?_"

She doesn't take offense at that, accepting it as bare fact. "You on the run?" she asks. "From the law?"

John huffs out a breath. "No," he says. "Not that. I'm just… Just broke. There's… There's no one else."

He doesn't look up and Jude doesn't speak. At length, she strokes the backs of her knuckles against Dean's cheek, pulls the blanket up a little. The gesture spikes into John's belly, grateful and helpless all at once. "How'd you find me, anyway?"

John closes his eyes briefly, smile soft and momentary. "You're not too hard to find. Just never looked, before now."

"Fair enough," she says. "You think it's stomach flu, then?"

"Or food poisoning." John grimaces. "Sammy hasn't got it."

"Okay," she says. "I got some barley water he can drink, ease his belly ache. And some ginger to settle it. If it’s a bacterial infection, I’ll need a little more time to put something together. He like licorice?"

John shrugs. "I don't know," he admits.

"_You_ like licorice?" Jude leans forward, peering around John at Sammy; Sammy shrinks back, clinging.

"Sammy," John says. "C'mon, son."

Sam goes around the long way, clambering into John's lap instead of sliding off the couch and onto the floor. He doesn't release his hold on John's shirt, doesn't even turn around to face Jude.

"Sorry," John says. "He gets a little shy." As if to prove his words, Sammy presses his face into John's chest as if he can burrow right in, pulling the edges of John's flannel over his head again. "_Sam._" John pulls the shirt away, but wraps an arm around Sammy nonetheless.

"It's okay," Jude says, face softening from wry humor into simple gentleness. She tilts her head, aiming for Sammy's gaze. "Hey," she says. "Sammy? I'm Juniper." She licks her lips briefly, a startlingly familiar gesture. "Your Aunty June." She glances up at John again and John meets her eyes, smiles. Sammy's looking up at him too. John pushes Sammy's hair back, nods briefly; Sammy snatches a glimpse at Jude from the corner of his eye. "You like licorice?"

Sammy shakes his head wordlessly.

"You like candy though, right?"

A slightly more enthusiastic nod.

"Right." Jude stands. "I'll go get the stuff. Anything else you need?"

"Um," John says. "A basin might be good. He doesn't have anything left in his stomach, but…"

"Got it."

"And a washcloth."

She nods again, heads out of the room through a bead curtain on the far side, sandals snapping against her heels, skirts drifting behind her.

John dips his head, Sammy's hair tickling his nose. "Hey," he says. "It's okay, you know. You can come out any time, now."

Sammy tilts his head to the side, pressing his ear against John's chest and letting his shoulders slump inward. It's been a long few days for them all, and Sammy always tends to get clingier rather than irritable when he's tired, like he's reverting to a younger age when he could just give up all autonomy and have John be the provider of absolutely everything.

Not that much has changed since Sammy started walking and talking all on his own, mind.

Sammy clings monkey-like, strong enough to make it barely awkward as John shifts to his knees, rearranges Dean. He piles the cushions at the back of the couch and eases Dean into a half-sitting position. Dean's barely awake, breathing shallow more from exhaustion than obstruction, John figures.

Jude comes back with a basin braced against her hip, unloads supplies from it before setting it near Dean's elbow. "Here," she says when John goes to take the damp washcloth. "Let me."

*

It was late afternoon when they showed up; by evening Dean's sleeping a whole lot more peacefully than he has in the last forty-eight hours, holding down a few glasses of liquids with no signs of bringing them up again. Sammy's curled by him on the wide, bed-deep couch, belly full of minestrone soup, completely dead to the world.

Jude pads into the room again, catches John's eye, tilts her head. He follows her out through the sliding glass doors, into a space of decking enclosed by an arbor of wisteria dotted with tiny lights. The air is fresher, cooler; saturated with the smell of the blossoms. Jude leaves the door open, sits on one of the worn-wood rockers. She draws a joint out of her pocket, presses it between her lips, flicks a lighter under the tip.

John laughs softly. "Jesus, Jude," he says. "Some things never change, huh?"

She flips him the bird, draws heavily until the cherry glows, then holds out the joint toward him. He rolls his eyes, shakes his head, then takes it. It's smooth, silky dry heat through his throat, and when he exhales the sweet scent of it makes his head spin a little, remembering the last time he smelt it. When the heat of the air was wetter, company a little cruder. God. How many years?

"So what happened to Mason?" he asks, diverting his line of thought, settling in the rocker opposite Jude, facing back into the house.

Jude huffs briefly in amusement. "Probably off licking his wounds somewhere. Or stewing." She casts him a glance. "He's the jealous type."

"Husband, then?"

"Fuck, no," she laughs again. "Though," she says. "You're not the only one who's been busy. I got myself a little girl, too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She's off camping," she says, taking another quick drag. "With Bell."

John feels his mouth curling, suppresses it. "Bell?" he says. "That her, uh… Her daddy?"

Jude shrugs. "Him or Mason." Then, "what, Jesus, don't look so appalled. Then again," she grins, more than a little devious, and it’s like a sucker-punch to John's gut how much that expression is _Dean's_. "You always were a prude."

He doesn't answer, still a little breathless. He takes another drag. It's been too long, the relaxing buzz settling in only faintly.

"Anyway," Jude says. "Where's momma? Or did you make those boys all on your own?"

John swallows, looks back in through the open door. Dean and Sammy are tiny lumps in the soft depths of the couch, the muted tones of their hair lost in its bright colors. "She's dead," he says shortly.

"Shit, Johnny," Jude says. "Was it… What was it?"

"It was…" He looks to her, looks away again. Out past the twist of the vines, the ghostly shapes of the eucalypts in the dim light. "I don't know what it was. Something bad."

She doesn't query it, just hands the joint over again. And he almost has to laugh a little at the irony of all this.

"That's why I'm here. Out here. With the boys. I gotta keep them safe."

"With no money," she adds, and then he does laugh at that, humorless and a little raw.

"It ain't easy," he says, without really even meaning to say it, especially in that tone. She's looking at him still, not with sympathy but with something else, something that echoes a faint warmth behind his ribcage, something that harks back to when before his dad -- _their_ dad -- died, only it’s sad in its remembrance, now.

"What was her name?" Jude asks.

"Mary."

Jude snorts, and John looks up at her sharply. "Oh, come on," she says. "John and Mary? Jesus, kid, could you _be_ any more square?"

"Shut up, _Juniper_," he mutters, and she laughs, low and genuine.

"You know," she says at length, breathing out smoke. "Aster's a Winchester."

"Aster," John says. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she says. "You know… Mom always worried about someone carrying on the family name."

John presses his lips together. "You know I would have--"

"She didn't think you were coming back, Johnny boy. You _told her_ you weren't coming back."

"Hey," John says, voice raising just a little. "You left before me. Don't go trying to--" He stops abruptly.

She lifts the joint briefly, as if it's a glass she's lifting in deferential salute.

"You haven't changed either, you know," he mutters after silence has unwound the tension again.

"Really?" Jude says, and she sounds surprised. "You've changed plenty."

*

In the night, John wakes because Sammy's trying to cram himself into the camp bed alongside him. "Sammy," he whispers when Sam's managed to wedge both his knees in John's belly. "What."

Sammy stops moving, and John can feel the faint pants of Sam's breath against his throat. "Daddy," Sammy whispers loudly. "Are you awake?"

John closes his eyes, sighs. "Yes."

"Me too."

"Is Dean awake?"

Sammy's hair tickles against John's wrist when he shakes his head. "Nuh-uh." He starts wriggling again.

"Sam, wait." Sammy stops wriggling. "What's wrong with the couch?"

Sammy doesn't answer, at least not verbally; turning his head to snuffle against the sensitive skin on the inside of John's forearm.

John doesn't know what's more pitiful; the fact that Sammy can't actually _speak_ what he wants or the fact that John can understand him asking for it anyway. The springs in the camp bed creak when he sits up, Sammy rolling into the dip. John catches him up by the waist and Sammy goes delightedly limp until John deposits him back onto the couch, only a couple of steps away. John drags the blankets from the camp bed over the gap, and settles down next to Sammy.

The couch is more than wide enough for the three of them, and narrow enough for John to reach out in the dark, feel the now-cooler flush of Dean's skin, hear the soft sound of Dean's breathing. Sammy grips his thumb, wordless again, and drags John's hand away from Dean and onto his own belly. John smiles, soft in the dark, and rubs gently until Sammy's a boneless sprawl of unconsciousness.

Works like a charm every time.

*

When John gets out of the shower the next morning the room's fogged with steam, so he cracks open the window. The windowsill is broad, stained wood like most every other part of the house, only there're arcane symbols carved in carefully, here. He runs his fingers over them, and the edges are smooth, like he's not the first to do so.

He bumps into Mason as he steps out. "Tea," Mason says. "Kitchen."

"Thanks." But Mason's already passed him, disappearing into another room of the house.

Sammy's still asleep when John gets back to the sunroom, but Dean's awake, sitting up straighter, eyes clear if still deep-set.

"Hey," John says. "Dean. How're you feeling?"

Dean swallows with some effort. "Better," he says hoarsely. "A little hungry. Where are we?"

"Somewhere safe," John says, then thinks of what Jude told Sammy yesterday. _Your Aunty June_. "My sister's house."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "You have a sister?" he says, sounding surprised. "We have an _aunt?_"

"Yeah, well," John scratches the hair at the back of his neck. "It's been a long time."

Dean doesn't ask, though John can see he's dying to. John's glad he's learnt when to keep his mouth shut, though. One day he'll tell Dean. One day he'll tell Dean all about it.

Sammy refuses to eat anything Dean's not eating, so it's barley sugars for breakfast. Sammy turns his nose up at the hot drink Jude concocts for Dean, though, taking one sniff and screwing his face up at the burn of the ginger.

Jude's teaching Sammy how to make a cat's cradle with thread between his fingers when Aster and Bell turn up, slamming the front door and calling out. Dean perks up at the sound but Sammy's expression of concentration drops into a glower when Jude stands up from the couch.

The girl who comes barreling into the room is definitely older than Sammy but probably not much younger than Dean. Her hair's long, waist length, same color Jude's was last time John saw her. It's got braids woven through it as well, and John gets the weird _twisting_ sense of recognition again, the familiarity unnerving. There's a cat's eye shell bordered with silver hanging on a long leather thong around her neck.

She seems entirely unfazed by the strangers in her home, smiling politely at Dean and John, narrowing her eyes when she gets to Sammy. Sammy glances up from below his brows and growls, honest-to-god _growls_, and Jude gives a burst of startled laughter.

"The hell, John?" she says, highly amused. "You raise these boys with a pack of dogs?"

John's just as baffled, shakes his head; but Aster's gone tense-still, not breaking eye contact with Sammy until she suddenly jerks, bolts across the room and out of the sliding door. Before John can blink, Sammy's bounded off the bed and after her, feet thumping loudly on the wooden floor.

"Well," Jude says at length. "That went well."

*

Within the week Dean's well enough to move again, shaky on his feet like a new colt but as keen to get back on the road as John is, more than a little stir-crazy in the sunroom.

They pack Dean into the front seat, then Jude says, "Hang on--" And runs back into the house. John leans his ass against the hood of the car, squinting into the golden afternoon light. Sammy's does another circuit of the borderless yard, Aster in hot pursuit; both of them giving a constant siren-pitch wail of _AHHHHHHHH!_

Jude comes back out of the house again, walking briskly. She hands him a package wrapped in brown paper, and it's more loose than firm in his hands, making crunching, scraping noises when he shakes it. "What's this?"

"Just some stuff to… To help you."

"Thank you."

"Johnny," she says. "It will help, you know. There's not… Not everything out there is evil."

He pauses for a moment, digesting that. "I know."

Her mouth quirks into a wry grin. "Sure you do, kid."

John sweeps Sammy up on his next loop around, arms and legs still kicking until John throws him over his shoulder in a fireman's lift.

Jude leans down when they're all in the car and ready to go, resting her hand on the edge of the door and peering in and around at them all. "See you round, kiddos," she says, and taps the door under her hand. "Don't be strangers."

"Daddy," Sammy says when they're off the dirt and onto the asphalt again, Pacific Ocean stretching out ahead of them, heady on the air. "Are we coming back?"

"We'll see," John says, but he already knows. After all, the less he loves, the less he has to lose.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/50600.html


End file.
